A Most Peculiar Man
by rambunctiousragamuffin
Summary: Isabela is having a bit of a rough night, but finds comfort within the arms of an old friend. Two-Shot. Occurs simultaneously with The Traveler, as part of my Wandering!Verse
1. Sharing a Drink Called Loneliness

Isabela huffed when she received her third rejection of the night, and resigned herself to occupying _her_ position at the bar, alone. She wasn't everybody's jig of swill that the Hanged Man called whisky, and she knew that. But there was still a small, irrational part of her that hoped that it wasn't because everyone was getting bored of her antics. She was cognisant of her ageing, and acknowledged that her antics were better suited to a younger woman.

She knocked back jig after jig of toxic sludge. Choose a respectable man to start a family with. Choose a house with a big garden, and choose grand couches and magnificent decorations to furnish it. Choose good friends who don't get into trouble at the drop of a hat, choose a hobby that doesn't get you stuck in a smarmy pirate's back pocket. Choose clothing and accessories in the latest Orlesian styles. Choose the future. Choose _life._

She waved to Corff for another round. Maker, she didn't know how many she had just downed. She shrugged and decided that it didn't matter how many she had. She _was_ choosing the future, in a roundabout way. Future her would inevitably regret current her's decisions, though.

"Fuck the future, and fuck regrets!" she toasted to Corff when he obliged her. Corff just nodded curtly in response, but his brow furrowed when he turned away to face Norah.

He turned jerked his head in the direction of Isabela. She was a big drinker, sure, and she spent big coin, but she rarely had a big raincloud over her head. Something was up, and he was sure of it. Unlike Norah, however, he wasn't the prying type. The best he could do would be to make sure that the drinks kept coming and to help her up to her room if she needed it.

The wandering bard who had blown in on the wind finished his last song for the night. It was a harrowing tale of betrayal and vengeance, sung with such raw emotion that Corff wondered briefly if it was his own. Such musings were short lived, as his jaded-after-spending-twenty-two-years-behind-the-bar-self rationalised that it was probably just a ploy for better tips from the patrons, as everyone loves a good sob story to make them feel better about themselves.

The bard was walking towards the bar, and took a seat beside Isabela. Corff was about to try and subtly wave him off when he heard the bard's voice again, this time prosaically.

"It has been many turns of the sun, and I would still recognise that derrière anywhere," the bard whispered to Isabela.

Her face crumpled in confusion. She recognised that voice, although it had indeed been many turns of the sun since she heard it last. The way that her realisation dawned on her face was almost comical.

"Qoo!" she exclaimed. The bard chuckled.

"What are you, a pigeon?" he asked whilst winking. Isabela playfully shoved him, causing him to spill his ale on her. "Oh, what a travesty," the bard said, feigning seriousness. "We'll just have to take that wet shirt off of you."

In response, Isabela just laughed. For the first time that night, Corff noted.

"You've gotten past the opening lines. If you want to see me naked, just say 'please.'"

The bard raised an eyebrow.

"Please."

Isabela gestured with to the bard to follow her with a crook of a finger, and in one fluid motion, stood and turned to saunter up the steps to the Hanged Man's private rooms. The bard drank the rest of his ale in one go, and watched the sway of Isabela's hips as she traversed the labyrinth of tables, stools, and patrons.

Before he could lose sight of her, the bard stood and made to follow Isabela. He was so concentrated on not losing her in the sea of people that he walked straight into someone, causing them to spill their drink as well. The bard rebounded off of the other person like a ball off of a wall, and was afforded a better view of the person in question.

He was tall. _Well, tall for an elf, at least_, the bard thought to himself. His eyes were the verdant shade of his people's, but held a weariness, and a wariness, uncommon in one so young. It was the stark white of the elf's hair that the bard recognised, as the elf had not had the markings upon his person when last the bard saw him.

Offering a lopsided grin, the bard flipped the elf a sovereign.

"A handful of coppers for your spilled drink, the rest to get your linens cleaned. If you don't get them done right, they'll always smell of drink."

The elf gracefully caught the coin and extended his arm to offer it back to the bard, but the latter just shook his head.

"I don't mind the smell of drink," the bard said flippantly. "If anything it adds to my appeal." The bard offered the elf a wink, and rushed through the crowd to the stairs where Isabela was awaiting him.

"Blue," she told the bard. Despite the general cacophony of the pub, Isabela was sure her elven friend could hear. When the bard motioned for her to continue, she grinned lasciviously.

"That's the colour of his small clothes. Blue."

Indeed, the usually taciturn elf did hear Isabela's comment, and indeed his small clothes were blue. He resolved to pay her the sovereign that she had bet him, despite the flush spreading to the tips of his elongated ears. It was shadowed by the arch of the doorway, barely discernible to the bard's appraising gaze.

"Well, are you going to chase after him, or are you going to spend the night with me?" Isabela asked, petulantly.

The bard pretended to pensively stroke his beard, but stopped when he began to see Isabela's mask slipping. He placed his hand on her upper arm, and stared at her face, searching, and wondering. Instead of responding, he moved his head towards hers, but stopped halfway, allowing her to close the distance.

All of Isabela's previous hesitation vanished, and she pressed her lips against his. The scratchiness of his beard was an unusual feeling, but not unwelcome. As their lips moved against each-other's, Isabela teasingly nibbled. A small nip here or there, but when she bit too sharply, the bard gasped.

Isabela took the opportunity to thrust her tongue in his mouth and they battled for dominance, slickly wrestling their tongues. They broke away, a sheepish grin on the bard's face, a predatory smile on Isabela's, when they heard the catcalls from the patrons in the pub. Placing one of the bard's hands in hers, she led him to her chamber.


	2. Better Than Drinking Alone

Yarr: thar be smut in this chapter.

If you're not comfortable with that kinda thing, don't read.

* * *

Isabela mashed her lips to the bard's with such fervour that she slammed him against the door, and the door slammed shut behind him. The sound of his grunt was lost behind the resounding bang that echoed within Isabela's sparsely furnished bedchambers. Reflexively, the bard leaned his head back, breaking the kiss and exposing his throat to Isabela. Turning her attention from his mouth to his Adam's apple, she laved it with her tongue.

This time, the bard's grunt was not lost to some other raucous noise and Isabela smiled against her quarry. Her smile remained as she trailed feather-light kisses down his throat, stopping just above the collar of his linen shirt. Intentionally languidly, she removed her lips from the bard's skin and began to slowly unbutton the offending article. Groaning in impatience, the bard swatted her hands away before bringing her face once again to his.

Where her hands were slow and teasing, tracing patterns through the flimsy material on his chest, their kisses were fast and passionate. Teeth and tongues and hot breath met, messily at first, but a rhythm soon emerged. When they broke apart for air, their lips would go from each-other's to exploring their partner's body. The bard sucked at the jewellery hanging from Isabela's lobe, Isabela scraping her teeth along the bard's recently revealed clavicle.

When her teeth reached the apex of the bone they were travelling on, at the crook of the shoulder, the bard instinctively thrust forward. Isabela giggled breathlessly, and began to drag her tongue from the bard's shoulder, up his throat once more, and nestled her nose by his ear.

"Where are your manners?" She playfully admonished, "not until you say please."

Her breath tickled his sensitive skin deliciously sensually, and a shiver ran down his spine, causing him to thrust again at the same moment the last of his shirt buttons was undone. Isabela pushed the shirt down his arms, and the bard shrugged it off. Despite all his traveling, the bard's skin was pure alabaster, and gleamed subtly in the moonlight. When Isabela's lips left his ear, the bard groaned at the loss of contact.

The groan quickly turned into a gasp as her hot tongue found one nipple and her fingers flicked the other.

"Maker's breath…" the bard let out in between pants.

Isabela slowly kissed and sucked her way down his chest and stomach. When she had gone down further than she could comfortably reach while standing, she fell to her knees and followed the trail of hair that led into his breeches and promised something most delightfully sinful. Rather than immediately starting to unlace it, she cupped the palm of her hand against the straining bulge and ground the palm of her hand in gently.

Refraining from thrusting again, the bard bit his lip and dug his fingers into her shoulders. With practiced flair, she deftly undid the drawstrings of his breeches and pulled them down around his ankles. Eagerly, he stepped out of the clothing pooled at his feet, and had he been wearing small clothes, that would have been all he was clad in. Instead, when Isabela had undone the drawstring, his final confines had been removed and his aching member released.

His hardness twitched in the cold night air and the movement sent a jolt of desire coursing through Isabela, causing a dampness to pool in her small clothes. Ignoring her own want for now, she took him in hand and firmly stroked from the base of his shaft. When the small bead of liquid appeared at the tip, she pressed her thumb to it and spread the slickness around.

The bard's cock twitched again at the sensation, and he fisted one of his hands in Isabela's hair. Using his fist, he directed her to where he needed her, not ungently. Her tongue teased around his head, and unable to restrain himself he thrust forward, deeper into her eager mouth. She sucked him and played with him, forcing the tension in his stomach to mount.

Panting furiously underneath her experienced mouth and hands, the bard barely managed to gasp out "please." Grinning, she removed her mouth from his member and shimmied out of her own small clothes before sauntering over to the bed. She beckoned the bard to follow with her finger. He did so eagerly, crossing the small room in a few short strides.

Once again pressing his lips to hers he groaned when he tasted himself, salty and bitter. The bard pushed Isabela down so that she was sitting on the very edge of the bed, and spread her knees open. The angle was awkward, and his shoulders too broad for him to fit properly between Isabela's legs, the bard leaning down to kiss her sex. His tongue ran around and between her folds, lapping at the juices that had formed.

Before long, she was squirming above him and panting heavily. Taking this as his cue, he pulled his head away so that he could tease her entrance with a finger. Isabela made a mewling sound, and the bard "tsk'd" in response.

"Where are your manners?" the bard repeated from before. "Not until you say please."

"Oh, Maker sod your nug-munching manners," Isabela panted out.

The bard chuckled and slowly inserted his finger, probing her wet warmth. Again, he leaned down to kiss her sex, his lips finding the sensitive bundle of nerves. Licking and laving, while curling a finger inside her depths, the bard could sense Isabela's tension mounting. He attempted to adjust himself to a better angle so that he could insert another of his fingers to help please her, but Isabela took the opportunity to push him back to the floor.

She stepped off the bed, and straddled above him, placing his rigid length at her entrance. Without so much as a blink, she lowered herself on top of him, her wet heat engulfing his aching member. He thrust up to meet her, and they quickly found an unsteady rhythm. He was slightly uncomfortable lying on the floor, but before long he found that he didn't care as much in the face of his impending rapture.

With each thrust, each slap of flesh against flesh, their ecstasy was rushing ever closer. The bard moved one hand from where it rested on Isabela's hip to her breast, flicking his thumb across the nipple. The other he moved to reach down between them, playing with the little nub at the top of her sex. Squeezing her breast, or flicking her nub elicited both a moan from deep in Isabela's throat and a squeeze from deep within her.

Before long, the moans became louder, more akin to screams, and her pace was all but lost in her pleasure as she shook above him. As the blinding white heat of her orgasm came to engulf her, she screamed once more, crashing down over the abyss. He followed shortly after her, her warmth milking him for his seed. As he shuddered and twitched, he chuckled breathlessly.

He kissed the top of her head.

"I think that I made the right decision by following you."


End file.
